


Something As Sweet As Pain

by KCUrquhart



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KCUrquhart/pseuds/KCUrquhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers face pain and death and torture everyday. So the last thing Clint had expected was to face death at the hands of an unknown illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pain overpowered all of Clint's senses, dropping him to the ground. He only was aware of the ground below him because of the stabbing feeling where it touched his skin. His whole body felt like it was overheating. Like his skin was steaming and boiling. His back was screaming at him and his chest felt tight. He felt like his heart would stop at any second. Like it would just give out in the sudden strain. Clint could feel the darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision. His body was shaking. He could hear footsteps around him. Voices shouting at him. But he heard none of it as the darkness swallowed him.

**Three Months Previous**

"Something wrong, Clint?" Steve's voice snapped Clint back to reality. To the exuberance that was an Avengers family meal. Steve was looking across the table at him, concern etched onto his face.

"Just daydreaming about a quiet beach somewhere." Clint lied, his smile sliding into place effortlessly. Steve seemed to buy it, joining back in the discussion of favorite movies. It was Thursday, meaning movie night. Which meant that all of Thursday was spent arguing about which movie to watch. It sounded like they had narrowed it down to two movies but Clint didn't join in the discussion.

Right now he was preoccupied by the pain in his stomach. It was a weird pain. Not like a stomach bug, or the flu, or even appendicitis. (Though to be honest that one was probably the closest). But it wasn't isolated either. It spread out along his abdomen. Tracing a line just under his ribs. It caused his breath to hitch as his muscles involuntarily contracted against the pain.

He didn't quite remember when the pain had started. It had come on so gradually, over weeks. But certain things made it worse. Like eating. Or pressure. Or heat. And even if he avoided those extra triggers, the pain was always there. It came in waves. Sometimes growing until he had to curl up into a ball against it. Other times dipping so low that he was barely aware of it. But it was always there. A new constant in Clint's life that he wasn't quite sure how to handle.

The first thing Clint had done was start rating the pain on a scale of 1 to 10. It was something his mom had done. Being able to analyze and categorize the pain helped him manage it. Helped him keep himself under control. So that he didn't show it to the others. Clint hated showing weakness of any sort. And some mysterious stomach pain that he couldn't figure out was definitely a weakness. So he kept a tally of numbers in his head, 5 at 3 o'clock, up to a 7 at 5 o'clock, back down to a 6 by 9 o'clock, and he kept the pain from everyone. Even Tasha and Coulson.

**One Month Previous**

The pain was just getting worse. Every day the waves would spike higher for longer and hardly dip down. It was starting to interfere with his everyday life. He couldn't eat more than a few bites of food without his body screaming in pain. Even then he was limited because there were only a few foods his body was keeping down. His diet had been reduced to little more than dry cheerios and pieces of white bread. He'd had to start taking the vitamins medical had been pushing on him for years. Then he'd started downing sports drinks just to be safe.

Even with all that his body was failing. His muscles ached constantly. He could barely lift his bow let alone draw it. He was always tired. He slept for almost 12 hours every night and still took naps during the day. But it was never restful sleep. He tossed and turned constantly, never able to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate the pain in his abdomen. Every breath hurt and he was constantly alternating between sweating and shivering. (He had been running a fever for weeks but he was popping Tylenol to keep it down. So no one had to know.) But the worst part had come when his right hand had started shaking. Just a small tremor that he could hide easily enough, except when they were on missions. Because holding the bow in his hand only served as a beacon, drawing attention to the fact that Clint physically could not keep his hand still.

Not the best trait in a marksman.

Thankfully the villains were taking it easy. Clint didn't know if they were just resting up for something big or enjoying the summer weather, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Or he was pretty sure that's what he would be feeling and thinking if both of those things didn't hurt. His brain felt as tired and raw as the rest of him. He muddled through each day like he was in a thick cloud. He could barely keep focused on anything for more than a few seconds before completely spacing out (also not the best quality in a marksman).

**One Hour Previous**

Clint knew it wouldn't last forever. Eventually even villains got bored and when they got bored was when the Avengers got to work. This time it was Dr. Doom. Not Clint's favorite baddie to deal with normally (the guy reminded him too much of Stark, building too many damn robots that his arrows had little effect on) but today just seemed like torture.

Somehow Clint found himself on a roof, 15 stories in the air, staring down at the chaos in the street below. He could hear the team fighting and shouting over the comms. So far they were managing on their own. He'd had little to do other than sit and watch. Yet he still felt as exhausted as he had after the Budapest mission. Not to mention it was the middle of the fucking afternoon in the dog days of summer. The temp was pushing 100 and he was sweating so badly his grip kept slipping on his bow.

The mission had finished with Clint doing nothing. He'd staggered over to the stairs and had somehow managed to get down them and to the elevator on the floor below before the wave of pain overtook him; jumping instantly from a 6 to a 9. The minor exertion causing his heart to feel like it was dying inside his chest. Clint wondered vaguely if this was just another new part of the mysterious disease or if maybe he was just having a good old-fashioned heart attack. It depressed him that he was hoping for the heart attack option.

**Back To The Present**

Coulson tried to not think about the tightness in his chest. Barton would be fine. The doctors had said that he was just dehydrated and a little malnourished. Some rest and an IV and he'd be up on his feet in no time. Still, looking down at his unconscious form laid out on the hospital bed, Coulson felt his breath hitch. Barton looked so pale. So thin. His eyes were sunken and there were dark circles below them. His skin was tight and dry, his lips pale and cracked. He was the very image of sickness.

But what had come as the biggest shock was seeing Barton's thin frame as they had dressed him in a hospital gown. Coulson had noticed that Barton had been seeming to eat less lately, but he hadn't realized it was this bad. The once muscular body was now wasted away. Judging from what little Coulson had seen, he guessed that the man must have lost at least 20 pounds of pure muscle.

The other Avengers staggered in one-by-one as they got through with their own post-op medical check-ups. He gave them all the same cursory report. Just enough to make them all feel like they were in the loop, without letting them see just how serious this was. Because despite what the doctors said, Coulson knew there was something very wrong for Clint to have ended up like this. For him to have let himself deteriorate like this without telling either him or Natasha.

Natasha seemed to agree. She was the last one to enter the room. (She had been hit by a piece of shrapnel in her arm and had had to get a dozen stitches.) Her eyes flicked between Barton and Coulson, worry etched onto her face. She sat down in the chair next to Coulson's, which Cap, being the perfect gentleman, had just vacated, quickly scanning the medical equipment screens. They had both been in medical enough times to understand most of the readings. "He'll be fine." She whispered out of the corner of her mouth. Too quiet for the others to hear. "We'll get him better then figure out what happened."

Coulson nodded. Not trusting his voice to get past the lump in his throat. Which only worsened as Barton's shoulders shifted and the man let out a low groan. Instantly everyone's eyes were focused on the bed and their hushed conversations fell off. Barton's eyes fluttered open and he looked around the room. His brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you all doing here?" Barton's voice was rough and weak.

"Checking up on you, duh." Stark rolled his eyes. "It's kind of what we do, ya know, when one of us gets hurt. Or did you hit your head too?" Stark was very lucky that Coulson didn't have his taser on him. And that Tasha had already moved her hand onto his to remind him that drawing his gun would be going too far.

"Do you remember what happened?" Cap asked.

Barton's face scrunched up in concentration and the corner of his mouth twitched. Coulson's heart started racing. He knew that twitch. It was one of Barton's tells. The one that showed when he was forcing himself to keep still. Barton was fighting something back. "I remember the mission. And being really hot. And… an elevator…" Barton was good, Coulson would give him that. The lies slipped out naturally enough. But Coulson had known Barton for far too long to be fooled. And judging by the way Natasha's grip on his arm tightened ever so slightly, she hadn't been fooled either.

"You passed out. Dehydration. You have to stay here for a while but the doctors say you'll be fine." Banner patted Barton gently on the shoulder. Barton smiled up at him. It looked too thin. Too worn. But Banner didn't seem to mind. Even when Barton suddenly yawned widely. "We'll let you get some rest." He then led the others out, having to tag team with Cap to get Tony to leave. Finally leaving Barton alone with just Natasha and Coulson.

The second the door was closed Natasha crossed the room and locked it. She then spun on a heel, slow and steady, glaring down at Barton. Coulson turned his eyes on the archer as well. With the others gone the man had let some of his shield down. His face was now set in tight lines. Coulson could make out the lines of muscles where his jaw was clenching.

"What's wrong?" Natasha asked, draping herself elegantly on the edge of the bed.

"You heard Banner. Dehydration. I'll be fine."

"Clint." Tasha's voice was sharp. "This is us. Don't you dare lie. Stop pretending you're not in pain."

Barton groaned again, though Coulson thought that it was supposed to have been a sigh. "I don't know what it is." Clint's voice was barely above a whisper. Coulson had to stand up and take a few steps closer in order to hear it properly. "I just know it hurts when I eat. Or breathe. Or move. Or, well, anything."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Coulson finally managed to find his voice. His anger at Barton's stupidity overriding the sea of other emotions that he still refused to acknowledge. "How long has this been happening?"

Barton shifted, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Coulson's eye noted how he seemed to adjust so that he was sitting more upright, curling his legs up into his chest just a fraction of an inch. Abdominal pain. That explained the not eating. "I didn't want to worry you guys. It's not that bad and I figured it was just a bug or something that'd go away after a few days."

"But?..."

"It didn't. It just got worse."

"How long?" Tasha slipped her hand into Barton's and Coulson bit back the jealousy that rose in his throat.

"Not long. Just a few weeks."

They could both see he was lying. But they didn't push it. They were lucky to have gotten as much out of Clint as they had. The man hated admitting weakness. They still had yet to convince him that injury and disease weren't weakness. They were things out of his control. Well, all except the times when he threw himself in harm's way on purpose. But those were a result of a mental weakness born out of Barton's past and neither Coulson nor Natasha were stupid enough to broach that topic.

"You still should have told us. As it is, I'll be having a discussion with the doctors to get some tests run." Barton's whole face fell at Coulson's words. Looking like a child being told he needed to get a shot. "If you try and get out of this or make a break for it, I will hunt your ass down and strap you to this bed until they figure out what's wrong with you. Understood?"

Barton hesitated, seeming to consider it. Natasha rolled her eyes and smacked him upside the head. "Ow, fine!" He pulled his hand out of hers to rub at the spot where she'd hit him. Not that she'd used enough force to actually cause any pain. "You're supposed to be nice to sick people." Barton was trying at humor but the tone was off. A dark cloud passed behind the man's eyes and Coulson saw his body tense slightly. His eyes were focused on a point on the far wall, not seeing anything. His mouth twitched.

He was still holding back. They wouldn't be able to get a clear read on what this was if Barton wasn't being completely honest with them. Which Coulson knew would never happen. So he would have to be a little dishonest himself.

"Come on, Natasha. We have doctors to meet with." Coulson let his lips twitch up ever so slightly at the way Barton pouted. Natasha kissed Barton on the forehead before following Coulson from the room. They waited until they were a few yards down the hallway before speaking. Hawkeye may be known for his eyesight, but he had excellent hearing as well.

"He's still hiding something." Natasha wasn't even trying to hide the concern in her voice.

"I know. I have a plan. I need you to go check with the doctors. Meet me in Room 233 when you're done." Her eyes widened slightly as she realized what he was suggesting. She nodded once and disappeared down the hallway. Coulson turned and walked in the other direction. Headed for a room on the other side of the building.

When Coulson pushed open the door he wasn't surprised to find the security guard munching on a donut while playing angry birds on his phone. The security feeds in the medical bay were notorious for being either the most boring or the most disgusting. SHIELD agents faced a lot of weird tech and sometimes there were some rather… unpleasant… side-effects. Most people tended to avoid medical as much as possible and getting assigned security here was a huge punishment.

Coulson closed the door with a little extra force so that it would slam slightly. The guard's head snapped up, wide-eyed. When he recognized Coulson he jumped to his feet and gave a salute. "Agent Coulson, sir."

"At ease, Agent –" He glanced at the man's nametag "Croyston. I'm not here on official business."

The man relaxed slightly. Still waiting for Coulson to tell him off. "What can I help you with, sir?"

"I need to see one of the feeds."

"I'm sorry, sir. But only security personnel are allowed to view them. Unless you have a signed 13-A8 Form."

Coulson had to fight not to smile. "And do you know who it is who signs the 13-A8 Forms?" The man started to shake his head before catching on. "I would like to view a feed." Coulson repeated. His voice as calm and measured as he could make it. "Privately." Croyston nodded and shuffled out of the room. Coulson locked the door behind him. He figured he had three minutes before Croyston realized that Fury and Hill were the only ones with the authority to sign those forms. Coulson threw himself into the vacated chair, ignoring the donut crumbs. He typed at the controls, searching desperately. Why did there have to be so many rooms? So many cameras? Finally he found it. He switched it to the main screen, bringing it up to full size.

His heart stopped. The air left his chest as if it'd been punched out of him. Barton had been lying all right. The pain was obviously more than just a little something. In the grainy footage, Coulson could see Clint, curled up on his hospital bed. Wrapped so tightly into a ball that he seemed to vanish behind where the sheets and blankets had been shoved into a mound. Coulson could see the archer's body shaking. Whether from pain or tears, he didn't know. It didn't matter. Clint was hurting. Hurting worse than Coulson had ever seen. Or could have imagined.

He wanted to run back in there. To hold Clint in his arms and sooth away the pain. But he couldn't. Not just because Barton would never let him see the weakness. But because if Phil saw Clint like this, in person… He wouldn't be able to hide exactly how he felt. He dropped his head into his hands. Pushing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars before using them to brush away the tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint knew that there was a reason he didn't like doctors. More often than not, they were incompetent and gave up too easily. He'd had far too much experience with people getting frustrated with him and cutting their losses. Choosing to leave and let him sort himself out on his own. He was used to it. Expected it.

So he wasn't surprised when the doctor stood at the end of his bed and told him "We tried everything we can think of. We can't find anything wrong."

That also wasn't a surprise. Clint had known that they wouldn't find anything. It was the main reason he hadn't told Tasha or Coulson. They would drag him to medical for a bunch of tests that Clint knew would be pointless. He knew his body and he knew that while whatever was wrong with him was serious, it was also unique. He'd had Jarvis look for any disease that might match his symptoms. There were none.

Clint just wished the doctors had listened to him before running all those tests. He hadn't really minded most of them. Blood tests and MRIs and X-rays he was used to. And the endoscopy was nice because they had knocked him out for it.

The CT scan had been another matter entirely. They had made him drink something they called a contrast. It had tasted like watery, milky chalk. The second it had hit his stomach he had retched. Clint had finished the glass, though; somehow had managed to keep it down. It made him feel weak and nauseous, but he was trained in torture, damnit, he could handle this.

Then they had showed up with a second glass. Clint would swear until his dying day that he hadn't started crying.

He tried. He really did. He sipped at it. Working down one agonizing drop after another. But the doctor had started pressing him. Telling him that time was a factor and if he didn't finish the drink soon, they'd have to start over.

The doctor may or may not have left the room with a broken nose.

Coulson had showed up a minute later. Clint had been tempted to break his nose as well. Something to get him out of the room. Coulson had seen Clint at his worst. Bleeding out from a bullet wound, dying for a few minutes. This was different though. No bullet or knife wound had ever made Clint feel as helpless and exposed as he did right now.

"You need to do this, Barton."

Coulson's calm cut through Clint's panic. It was Coulson's mission voice. The one he saved for when they were in the field and something had gone wrong. Clint should have been ashamed of how easily the sound centered him. Should have fought a little harder to maintain the last shreds of his dignity. But Coulson's ability to keep Clint grounded, even in the worst situations, was one of the reasons Clint had fallen in love with him. That fact, though, was just one more thing on the list of weaknesses Clint would never admit to having. Hell, it topped the fucking list. It was the worst kind of weakness. If it was ever discovered, ever exploited, it could end up causing harm to a lot more than Clint's self-esteem.

Only this time, he wasn't sure if even the sound of Coulson's voice or his calming presence would help. Coulson didn't understand. That drinking the contrast, it was hell. Literally. Hell. Clint would rather suffer every pain he'd ever felt in his life all at the same time. Would rather have lost his sight, or his hands, and been unable to ever shoot his bow again. Anything to not have to finish the drink.

Staring down at the still half-full cup in his hands, Clint felt a tear threatening to betray him. "Hey." Coulson's voice softened and he dropped down onto the edge of the bed. "You can do this. It's just another test, okay? This is the last one. This one will get us an answer."

Clint wanted to argue. To say that this was all a giant waste of time. But Coulson had said 'us'. Get us an answer. He didn't mean it in the way Clint wanted him to. He meant 'us' as in the team. Trying to remind Clint that they were all in this together.

The bags under Coulson's eye were what finally convinced Clint. The sooner they finished the tests, the sooner he could leave and go back to pretending nothing was wrong. The sooner he could go back on missions and see Coulson fretting about everyone else or his mountain of paperwork. The sooner Coulson could get back to where he belongs: not worrying about Clint.

He downed the rest of the drink, suddenly grateful for the years of doing beer bongs and keg stands at the circus. The way the liquid felt in his stomach made him want to scream. Made him want to run away and stab any doctor who tried to stop him. But Coulson's hint of a smile made it worth it.

Only Coulson had been wrong. The test had come back negative. Just like every other.

"According to our tests, besides a mild case of gastritis, you're perfectly healthy." The doctor gave Clint a sympathetic smile. "There's nothing else we can do except to continue to give you medicine to help manage the pain."

The doctor disappeared and left Clint with a grim certainty. This, whatever it was, would be the death of him. He hadn't eaten during the week he'd been here. Had relied on the IV they'd kept him hooked up to. He doubted he'd ever be able to eat without pain again. And not eating led to muscle loss, which led to him being unfit for field duty. Which led to him being pointless at SHIELD and either getting desk duty or losing his job entirely. He'd lose his place on the Avengers. Lose having Coulson as his handler.

This mysterious disease would take everything that made his life worth living.

A wave of pain broke through the thin barrier of the morphine flooding his system. It was the final straw. Clint was broken and he knew it. He curled up and cried.

;;;

Phil was filling out forms at the make-shift desk he'd fashioned for himself in the Medical Security room. He could feel the pressure of a stress headache building behind his eyes. It'd been days since he'd left Medical; since he'd had a decent meal or a full night's sleep. Phil just couldn't bring himself to enjoy such luxuries while Clint was suffering.

A point reiterated when Natasha slipped into the room. "How long have you been in here?" She sat down on the battered sofa tucked into a corner that Phil had been using as a bed.

"Twenty minutes." He replied without looking up. He needed to get these forms filled out. There was a mission team that couldn't go into the field until he did.

"Going to get a refill of coffee doesn't count. You working yourself to the bone isn't going to help Clint. That's what the doctors are for." Natasha's voice was calm but it only mad Phil furious. He threw her the medical file that the doctor had dropped off the day before. There were a few quiet moments as she read the file and he finished the forms, signing them with a flourish.

"There's got to be more tests." Natasha said finally. Her voice was still soft and reassuring but there was a strain behind it now.

"They've run every test they can think of. Nothing." Phil could feel his calm exterior slipping. He didn't care. Natasha wouldn't judge him for it. "It's been over a week, and nothing. How can they say it's nothing?! I mean, look at him!" Phil gestured to the bank of monitors without looking. He knew what he'd see and he knew he couldn't handle seeing it. The room seemed to grow colder as he felt Natasha's rage emanate out from her. "They have him on a full morphine drip and it's doing nothing. It's like putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound. Or replacing Stark's arc reactor with a refrigerator magnet." Tasha hummed; intrigued. "No."

"What?" she asked innocently. Phil felt his lips twitch up in an unconscious smile. "I was just remembering the time Clint got shot in Kiev."

"I'm sure you were." Phil spun his chair so that he could look Natasha in the eye. "I've got enough to handle without having you torturing Stark."

She looked genuinely offended. "If you'll notice, we've all been on our best behavior." Phil flinched at the ice in her tone. He hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy watching out for Clint. Now that she pointed it out though, he realized that it had been days since he'd had someone complain to him about the Avengers' shenanigans.

"Thank you."

"Cap's the one you should thank. He's been keeping Tony… busy." She smirked as Phil's cheeks tinged pink. "With Stark and Clint out of the picture, there isn't much left to cause trouble." Her eyes flicked back to the monitor. "What are we going to do?"

Phil glanced at the screens. The sight of Clint fitfully tossing and turning in his sleep caused his heart to hurt. He would do anything for Clint. Would gladly take the pain from him if he could. Would do or say anything and everything if it would give the man even a moment of relief. "Whatever it takes."

;;;

Eleven days in Medical and Clint was ready to shoot someone. Especially now that there was no reason for him to stay here. The doctors had run out of theories; were utterly clueless. The morphine did nothing against the pain. It never had. He'd been weaning himself off it for the last four days, ever since the doctor had said that all the tests were negative. The pain levels didn't increase, for which he was grateful. If anything, the pain was lessening slightly. Not much, but the waves of pain started peaking at 8s instead of 9s. The between-wave constant was settling at a low 5 rather than a high 6. Even that slight drop in pain felt like a world of difference. It made him all the more determined not to spend another minute lying on a hospital bed.

Clint considered signing out his normal way; just walking out (or sneaking out as it more often was) but decided against it. His method always caused problems for Coulson. The bags under Coulson's eyes had been getting deeper and deeper each time he'd come in to check on Clint. The image of him being so worn seemed to burn its way into Clint's memory.

He reached for the remote attached to the bed, intending to hit the button to page a nurse. Before he could, the door opened and Coulson and Tasha walked in. The look and Coulson's face made it seem like he was suffering as much as Clint. It made him glad he had decided to do things by the book for once.

"How're you feeling?" Tasha asked as she settled into her normal spot at the foot of his bed, Coulson choosing to remain standing just inside the door.

"Better." It was the truth. Clint was between waves. His pain almost down to a four. "Was hoping to check myself out of here and head home." Clint saw their faces tighten.

"The doctors still haven't figured out what's wrong." Natasha spoke gently, like maybe he'd simply forgotten.

"And they probably never will." He replied in the same tone, making her eyes darken in anger. "There is nothing the doctors can do for me. So why bother staying here when I could be at home watching shit daytime television on Tony's 90" tv screen?"

"What about the pain meds?" It took Clint a second to recognize that it was Coulson who had spoken. His voice was off. It was harsher, rough and ragged around the edges in a way Clint had never heard. If he didn't know better he would say it sounded like Coulson had been crying. But Clint knew better. Coulson never cried.

"I'm not taking any."

"And what would you call morphine?" Tasha joked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"I'd call it a hell of a drug that can make a bullet wound feel like a scratch but has zero impact on whatever the fuck is wrong with me and is therefore no longer in my system."

The smile vanished from Tasha's face and Coulson's body went rigid. "What do you mean?" Tasha spoke each word slowly, making sure that they had both understood him correctly.

"I've weaned myself off the morphine. No point in taking it if it does jack-shit."

"Do you realize how dangerous that is?" Coulson's voice was sharp and thin, matching the set of his face. "Morphine is a heavily controlled substance and the administration and cessation of it should be handled by a trained medical professional."

"I'm not an idiot, Coulson. I did it slowly. Over the last few days. I've been paying close attention but there have been no symptoms of withdrawal. Though, honestly, I wasn't that worried. I mean, what was the worst that could happen? It'd kill me? Pretty sure I'm already dying here anyway."

Coulson gave a strangled groan and Tasha's jaw dropped. A second later her hand flew out and smacked him across the face so hard he was seeing stars.

"What the hell?!" he sputtered.

"No one here is dying today." She spat.

"Well, probably not. Can't rule it out though. Never know when Doom or Namor or someone will get bored."

"Clint." Tasha wasn't amused.

"Look, I'm not saying I'm ready to just roll over and die, okay? I'm just tired of being helpless. At least at the Tower I can pretend like everyone's not waiting for me to keel over."

"No one's – "

"Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes. It'd be different if we knew what this was, but we don't. And in our line of work the list of mysterious fatal diseases is long enough that even Coulson hasn't read it. I'm going to die from this. It's not the way I figured I'd die, but I'm okay with it. I've had months to accept that fact. But at least let me die with some dignity. Let me die as me."

"I'll fill out the release forms."

Tasha's head snapped around to stare at Coulson, tears brimming in her eyes. "You'll what?"

"He's right. We can't fight this. We have the best doctors and most advanced tech of this world and Asgard combined. We've found nothing. This is the best we can do." Coulson fled, making a quick exit. If Clint didn't know any better he would have sworn he had seen a single tear streaking down Coulson's cheek.

;;;

As soon as the door shut behind him, Coulson hurried to his make-shift office. Only once he was safe in the semi-darkness did he let the tears come. He had never allowed himself to consider that Clint might die from this. Had told himself that it was just an alien bug that would work its way out of his system. Something fleeting, like the flu. But even the flu killed people.

Coulson had learned early on that Clint had an eerily accurate sense of his own body. He knew its boundaries and limits. Knew when to push and when to take a step back and relax. He'd never once been wrong. So if Clint said this disease was going to kill him, Coulson knew he was right.

"Coulson?" He didn't bother trying to wipe away the tears. Natasha didn't require visual proof to know just how broken Coulson was feeling. It should have bothered him, having someone know him so well that he'd never had to tell her his deepest secret. She just knew. "He's not going to die."

"We're all going to die. At least this way doesn't involve bullets and no chance to say good-bye. It's more than I ever thought I'd get."

"He's been wrong before, you know."

"No, he hasn't. I'm his handler. I'd know."

"Except you were sort of dead at the time."

Coulson froze at her words. They never really discussed the events on the helicarrier before the Battle of New York. Phil had been shocked that he'd survived. Had woken up in Medical and been told that I'd been out for a week and that we'd won. It'd been another week before Fury had finally told him why he was confined to his room. That everyone thought Phil was dead. His first thought had been for Clint and Natasha. His team. The two people who were so much more than just assets. More than family.

Phil could still remember the look on Clint's face when Phil had walked into the briefing Fury had called. He and Fury had been discussing for weeks the best way to break the news. They had finally decided that there was no good way and to just gather the Avengers into a room and tell them. They had all reacted how Phil had expected. Steve and Thor were glad to have him back. Stark was furious with the trick. Banner just focused on staying calm. Natasha smirked, like she'd suspected all along.

But Clint. Clint didn't say anything. Didn't react at all. He simply sat, frozen in his chair, eyes looking anywhere but at Phil. His face had been passive and unreadable. Even the memory of it caused Phil's chest to tighten. It had taken three months after that meeting before Clint met Phil's eye and another three before he'd started joking around, like he had before the events with Loki.

"You didn't see Clint when we thought you were dead." Natasha's voice brought Phil back to the moment. "You didn't see what it did to him."

Phil fought to keep his eyes from rolling but couldn't stop himself from scoffing. "Right. I saw the warm welcome I got."

"Coulson." Natasha grabbed his arm, pulling him around so that they were face to face. He dropped his eyes. "Phil." He looked up to meet her gaze. "Think about how you felt, in Kiev, when Clint was officially dead for three minutes."

"I was scared. Then relieved when he came back." Phil whispered.

"Liar. You were a lot more than scared." Phil bit at his lip. Her words were true, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Now imagine if you thought Clint was dead. Really dead. And you were responsible for putting his murderer in his path. –"

"It wasn't Clint's –"

"I know that. But that didn't stop him from blaming himself. Put yourself in his shoes. Could you ever forgive yourself if you thought you'd gotten him killed?" Phil shook his head. "And you know Clint. He's so…"

"guarded"

"exactly. It takes a lot before he lets himself get attached to someone. He's lost so many people in his life. So to lose you…"

Phil wanted to believe that her words meant what he wanted them to mean. That maybe Clint cared about Phil as much as he cared about him. He shook his head. Ten years. They'd worked together for ten years and Clint had never shown any interest. Phil wouldn't let any words from Natasha twist in his mind and lead him to doing something irreparable. Clint was an amazing asset. The three of them together in the field were the best team SHIELD had. Phil had to place that first. No matter how badly that hurt.

"You said he was wrong?" Phil was hoping that this conversation would be over soon.

"You'd been dead for a month when we had our first assignment as the Avengers. Our old friends at AIM acting up again. The battle was going badly. We were outnumbered 10 to 1. Clint went nuts. Starting firing faster than I'd ever seen. He took out over a fifty people singlehandedly. We won. But Clint didn't come down from his perch.

I went up, to see if he'd been hurt and just hadn't told anyone, again. But… I've never seen him like that." Natasha's voice dropped so much that Phil had to take a step forward to catch her words. "He was broken. Kept saying that he couldn't do this anymore. Saying that he'd tried but couldn't handle it. Saying that it was going to kill him."

"What was?"

"You. Dying. He thought he was going to die of a broken heart."


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to the Tower was one of awkward silence. Clint lay on the back seat of the car, curled up tightly on himself and staring intently out of the window while Tasha and Coulson were silent statues in the front. Clint could tell that they were watching him, waiting for any sign of pain. But Clint was feeling okay right then. His pain barely hitting a 7. Though the ache in his back was throbbing mercilessly.

As soon as they were in the Tower, Clint all but sprinted for the living room. The tv options at Medical were seriously lacking. The short burst of speed cost him quite a bit of pain. He rubbed at his back, putting pressure on the sore muscles as he sank into the ridiculously oversized sofa. As soon as he took his hands away he realized his mistake. He'd made it before. A few times. Every ounce of pressure on his back always resulted in more pain after. But the pressure always felt so good. It always relieved the pain for a few seconds.

"You okay?" Tasha curled up on the couch next to him.

"Fine." Clint mumbled. "Jarvis, put on something interesting."

"Of course." The AI responded in his normal tone.

Clint hoped that Tasha would let the subject drop and simply watch tv. She glared at him for a full five minutes before finally giving up. She huffed and rolled her eyes and strode from the room. For which Clint was thankful. His back was throbbing and he wasn't sure how much longer he would have been able to pretend that he wasn't in pain. As soon as she was gone he grabbed a pillow, wrapping himself around it and lying down on the couch. He let his eyes slip closed as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

At least it wasn't the damn hospital. At least he was back at home.

;;;

Life at the Tower seemed to resort to some sort of normal. After a few days of tiptoeing, the rest of the team had stopped babying Clint. Mostly because he would bitch at them every time they did. Tony had been the first to start insulting him again. Though, Clint wasn't sure if Tony had ever actually stopped.

They learned quickly that Clint wasn't going to eat. He just wasn't. And that no amount of pestering would change that. They learned the schedule of Clint's waves of pain. What times of day or night that they could expect him to disappear into his room. When to ignore the screams of pain that they all pretended not to hear. That Clint spent most of his time asleep and even when he was awake he was constantly exhausted. They all adjusted.

Clint was home for nearly two weeks before the team got called out. He wanted to go with them. Every fiber of his being missed being Hawkeye. Sitting in a perch and taking out bad guys with his bow. He needed it. It felt like he was betraying his very soul as he watched the others pack up.

"Please." He grabbed Tasha's arm as she walked past.

"Clint, you know you can't." She sounded sorry.

"Just give me a comm. A camera feed. Something." He couldn't handle the idea of all of them out there. Without him. With him lying helpless on the sofa.

She ran a hand through his hair gently, giving him a weak smile. "I'll ask Coulson."

Clint groaned and dropped his head back against the cushion. Coulson would say no. Coulson had said no to everything Clint had asked for the last couple weeks. When Clint had wanted to go watch a movie at the theater. When he'd wanted to go walk around Central Park. When he'd wanted to just go down to the docks and watch the boats come in. Coulson had always shown up at the Tower, adamantly refused, and then had disappeared again.

After Coulson had dropped Clint off at the Tower, he had vanished. Clint hadn't seen him again for days. Which was strange, after how attentive he'd been while Clint was in Medical. Clint couldn't help but feel that maybe he'd done something wrong. A thought that had only been emphasized when he'd been awoken from a nap by the sounds of Coulson and Tasha fighting. Not a fist fight, but an all-out screaming match. Those two never fought unless it was about him.

Clint had wanted to climb out of bed and sneak down the hall to hear what they were saying. All he could hear from his room was that Tasha was mad enough to keep switching over to Russian. Never a good sign. Clint had ended up falling asleep before he could muster the energy to stand up.

"You can have a comm if you promise to keep quiet." Clint opened eyes he didn't remember closing to see Coulson glaring down at him. Every time he saw Coulson lately, he had that same glare. It had replaced the emotionless mask that Clint knew so well. He hated it. Because the glare was his fault too. He knew it was.

"No camera feed?" Clint snatched the earpiece that Coulson had set on the coffee table. That was another thing Clint had noticed. No physical contact. Not that they'd ever been touchy-feely, but Clint missed the contact. He had tried to pat Coulson on the shoulder once, only to have the man flinch and dart away as if Clint had electrocuted him.

"I've already linked the feeds through Jarvis. You'll be able to watch on the main screen." Coulson's voice was tight and thin. Clint could see the way his jaw clenched.

"Thanks." Clint tried to smile but it faltered under a burst of pain that made his whole body contract. A soft grunt escaping in the process. Clint's eyes slid shut again as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. He looked up again at the sound of hurried footsteps coming into the room. Bruce was coming towards Clint carrying an IV bag and looking an unnerving shade of green. Clint knew what was coming and held out his right hand obligingly. It had been one of the conditions on him getting to leave medical. He had to keep up with the IV bags.

"What are you doing here, Banner?" Coulson's face dropped some of its tension. Which was probably to help try and keep Bruce calm.

"Clint needs his IV and I didn't think I should wait until after because I don't know how long it'll take to cool down." Bruce rushed the words, obviously fighting back the other guy. He stepped forward but Coulson blocked him. "It will only take a second."

"You're too far gone to do anything right now. Get down to the rest of the team."

"But – "

"I'll do it." Coulson snatched the bag with one hand and maneuvered Bruce in an effortless 180 with the other. "Now go." Bruce marched from the room as Coulson dropped to his knees in front of the couch. All of the tension instantly back in his face. He was staring at the tube in the back of Clint's hand like it was a bomb about to go off.

"It's fine. I'll do it myself." Clint grabbed for the bag. He'd watched the doctors and Bruce do it enough times over the last month. It was exceedingly simple. Just plug one tube into the other. The only reason Bruce still insisted on doing it was to make sure Clint didn't skip doing them. Which was smart on Bruce's part. Not that Clint minded them all too much, but he tended to forget things easily lately.

Coulson jerked his hand out of Clint's reach. "No. I can do this." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Clint could see his chest heaving.

"It's fine, sir. You don't have to. They need you in the field anyway." Clint simply held out his right hand, palm up, towards Coulson so that he could place the bag there.

"There are more than enough agents in the field equipped to handle the situation."

Coulson didn't move and neither did Clint. They sat like that, in silence. Coulson staring at Clint's hand and Clint staring down at Coulson. He studied the man's face, trying to get a read on him. He'd always sucked at reading Coulson. Which might have been where his love for him had started. Clint had put years into studying Coulson, watching his every move and facial expression, trying to decipher how the man worked. The only thing Clint had learned was that when Coulson smiled, Clint smiled. And that Coulson would only put up with so many of Clint's jokes over the comms. And that when Clint stopped answering on his comm, Coulson tended to freak out. Clint learned what to do or say to elicit which reactions. But he still had no clue as to what Coulson was thinking during it all.

"Sir." Clint whispered. Because this was going too long. And Coulson needed to get into the field. "Coulson?" He asked, when Coulson didn't respond. Didn't move. Didn't make any sign that he'd heard him. "Phil?"

Coulson jumped. He moved suddenly. Flipping Clint's hand over and plugging in the IV and hanging it on the IV pole, which Tony and Thor had decorated with purple streamers, before jumping to his feet and hurrying from the room.

Clint was too stunned to move. "What the fuck just happened?"

"I'm assuming that was a rhetorical question?" Clint jumped at Jarvis' voice.

"Yes, Jarvis. Unless you have a good answer?"

"Unfortunately, I do not. Would you like me to put up the camera feeds?"

"Yeah."

Twenty minutes later Clint was watching the dozens of screens, trying to follow the battle. Purple goo monsters. Seriously. What were these people thinking, creating shit like that. Bullets didn't affect them, but fire did. So Thor kept hitting them with lightning and Tony kept blasting them while Steve and Tasha had switched over to flame throwers. And no, Clint was never going to admit how jealous he was. No one ever let him play with fire. (Not that they didn't have a good reason, but still.)

"How many left?" Coulson's voice came over the comm.

"I count about a dozen." Tony answered. Clint spotted him flying over the street on one of the screens. Which drew Clint's attention to the screen next to it.

"Widow, your 5 o'clock."

Tasha spun and the goo monster went up in flames. "Thanks, Hawk." She gave a quick nod of appreciation. Clint smiled to himself. At least he'd done something useful.

"Agent Barton, you were told to remain silent." Coulson's voice was crisp and clear. Issuing the order without having to state it outright.

The glimmer of happiness Clint had felt died a quick death. So many questions burned at his throat, trying to get out. Why was Coulson angry with him? What had Clint done wrong? Why didn't Coulson care? Was it because Clint was dying? Was it because Clint was worthless now? Because he couldn't be Hawkeye? Because he was no longer an asset that could be used? Clint bit them all back and focused on the strange feeling in his stomach. One he hadn't felt in months.

Hunger.

"Fuck." It came out in almost an awed whisper. Clint didn't know what to make of the hunger. It had been so long since he'd felt it. Should he eat? Should he not? What was the worst that would happen if he did? Just severe pain. But no one else was home to see if he wasn't able to handle it. So it'd be fine. Wouldn't it?

"What's wrong?" Tasha's voice was in his ear, worried. He'd forgotten about the comm.

"It's nothing." Clint said quickly, hoping for once she would buy it. She didn't.

"Barton, what is it?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he shuffled into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. What should he try? Something bland. Something easy. He spotted the box of cheerios. Perfect.

"Barton. Respond." Steve demanded as Tasha and Tony both spoke up in the background. Clint didn't want to answer. Didn't want them to know. Because what if he ate, and it hurt? He wanted to keep this to himself until he knew what would happen.

"Nothing guys. The stupid zipper on one of the pillows poked my in the eye. It's fine."

Clint swore silently as he pulled the cereal box from the shelf. It was unopened. He slid one finger along the seam, moving it slowly so that it wouldn't make noise. Then stared down at the plastic bag. Well fuck. Whoever designed food packaging should be shot.

"Don't lie to me, Barton." Tasha's voice was strained and half-hidden under the whoosh of her flame thrower. He ripped open the packaging, hoping that none of them would hear it over the sounds of the battle. They did.

"What was that?"

"Barton, what's wrong?"

"Explain yourself."

"Are you hurt?"

"Is someone else there?"

The questions bombarded Clint until his head was throbbing. He considered ripping the comm out of his ear, but that would just make things worse. The only way they were going to shut up was if Clint told them the truth.

"Guys! Shut up already! I'm just fucking hungry."

Sure enough, the comm went silent.

;;;

Phil refused to acknowledge the feeling. Wouldn't let himself think the thought. It didn't matter that Barton was hungry. It was just a natural instinct. It didn't mean anything. It sure as hell didn't mean that maybe, just maybe, he was getting better.

;;;

Clint woke up to Tasha running a hand through his hair. He blinked back the confusion that filled his mind. The fog had been getting fainter lately. There had been moments, here and there, where his mind was almost clear again.

"How ya doing?"

Clint ran through his mental checklist, focusing on each part of his body in turn. His stomach hurt, but no more than it normally did at this time of day. "I'm – I'm good." He smiled up at her.

She smiled back. "No pain?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "From the food, I mean."

Clint shook his head. "Nothing horrible. Just a minor twinge. Not even as bad as the mid-day wave." That wave of pain was always the worst. It was the one that had brought about the only level 10 pain that Clint had ever felt. A pain so severe that it had altered the rest of his pain scale. Even now, weeks later, the memory of the pain was enough to make Clint's whole body ache.

"Good." She winced as she stood upright. Clint noticed the blood on one of her legs. "Just a scratch."

"Go to medical." Clint pushed her away, towards the door. "I'm not going to have you get written up because of me." Tasha laughed but acquiesced.

Clint leaned back into the couch cushions, letting his exhaustion sweep back over him. He closed his eyes and started the process of shutting down his mind section by section. It was a long process, and he was only two steps into it when he heard voices. He figured it was just the rest of the team returning and pushed the noise aside. Then the voices grew louder and he recognized them.

Clint was on his feet in a second. He inched silently towards the doorway to the kitchen.

;;;

"I don't care. If you want to know, ask him yourself." Natasha leveled a glare a Phil. He groaned inwardly.

"Please, Natasha. You know why I can't."

"No, I don't. We've been over this. You can't keep acting like this."

"I can, and I will." Phil crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the fridge. He really didn't want to have this conversation again. "Now, will you come with me back to HQ? Or am I going to have to tranq you?"

She grinned evilly. "You wouldn't dare. And I'm not letting this drop. The others are worried."

"About what?"

"About what?! The fact that you, who live here, haven't been here in two weeks." She explained slowly, enunciating each word.

"I –" The excuses died in Phil's chest. "I can't." He whispered. "You know I can't."

"He deserves to know."

"To know what?"

They both jumped as Clint stepped into the kitchen. Phil felt like his chest would explode as he took in the hollowed look of Clint's face. The way his t-shirt hung too loosely over his diminished frame. The ghastly pallor of his skin.

"What should I know?" Clint repeated, looking back and forth between them. Natasha didn't answer. She just looked to Phil, waiting for him to speak. But Phil couldn't. Couldn't voice his emotions. Not now. He shifted his gaze to a spot a few feet to Clint's right. "Is it about why you've been avoiding me?" Clint's voice was quiet but it tore through Phil like a hurricane. "Are you going to tell me what I did wrong or – "

Phil's muscled moved without his permission. In a heartbeat he was across the room and pulling Clint into his arms. He reached up to the back of Clint's neck and pulled the man's head towards his. And Phil kissed him. Silencing Clint's questions. Trying to put all of his emotions and explanations into the feel of Clint's lips on his own.

Clint pushed him back. Phil's heart dropped out of his chest at the look on his face. Shock and- and anger and, oh god, was that disgust? Clint turned and fled down the hallway towards his room. For a moment, Phil didn't move. He could hear Natasha talking, asking, explaining, but he didn't hear her. He felt like his world was crashing down around him. He needed to be alone. To be able to gather up the pieces of his life. He headed for the elevator, muttering just loud enough for Natasha to hear, "That's why."


	4. Chapter 4

Clint curled up into a tighter ball, snuggling up to press his face into the crevice where his bed was pushed up against the wall. The position was uncomfortable, but that was fine. He maneuvered a hand to pull the blankets up over his head, hiding him completely. Trying to shut out the world for a little while.

The sound of soft footsteps and a weight settling on the far side of his bed brought the world to him. "Clint?" Natasha whispered. Probably wondering if he was asleep. For a second he considered faking it. Just to get her to leave. "I know you're awake." Damn.

"hmm." He hummed flatly.

"You okay?" He shook his head and she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. "What was that?"

"You tell me." His voice was muffled but she understood.

"Look – "

"No. You told him. Didn't you?" She doesn't answer but she doesn't have to. Clint knows. Tasha was the only person he'd ever told. The only one he'd trusted to keep his secret. The idea that she'd betrayed that trust… It burned at him worse than the memory of Coulson's lips pressed to his. Coulson's hand on the back of Clint's neck. His skin warm and calloused from years of field work. Just thinking about it made Clint's heart race and he started to hyperventilate. "Go away."

Tasha's hand dropped from his shoulder but she didn't get up. "I'm not sorry. I had to do it."

"You had to embarrass me? Betray me? Humiliate me?!" He's so angry that he can barely get the words out. "I was fine. I was handling it. It was working."

"No, it wasn't. He didn't do this out of some sort of twisted pity, you know." The bed shifted as she stood up. "You aren't the only one who can't actually say how he feels. You aren't the only one who this illness is affecting." He started to say something but she cut him off. "I know. Clint, I get it. I'm not blaming you. I'm not saying I wouldn't gladly take your place or do anything I could to make you better. But you need to get your head out of your ass and realize that not every kindness done to you is out of pity. Sometimes, love is just love." She slipped out of the room, leaving him to think over her words.

She was lying. She had to be. How could he trust anything she said when she'd already betrayed him? She'd told Coulson. God, the thought made his stomach wretch. No wonder Coulson had been avoiding him. No wonder he'd been so carefully avoiding any physical contact. Coulson was disgusted. Revolted by the feelings Clint had for him. But he'd kissed Clint. Because Clint was dying, so what did it matter? Right? Coulson must have figured that he could humor Clint for a little while. Fulfill a dying man's wish. But Clint didn't want that. Didn't want Coulson if Coulson didn't want him. And Coulson didn't want him. Clint knew that. Ten years working together gives one a good idea of what sort of relationship someone wants.

Tears were stinging at the corner of Clint's eyes. He blinked them back. He didn't want to have a breakdown right now. There was a wave of pain coming soon and breathing hurt enough as it was. He needed to do whatever caused the least pain. That was the only thing that mattered. He forced the thought to dominate his brain, pushing everything else away. Focusing on slowing his breathing and relaxing his muscles. Just do whatever hurts least. Just take the easiest path.

He gritted his teeth at the first stab of pain that ripped through his abdomen. Soon his whole body was aching, the pain dancing around his skin too fast to keep track of. He clutched at his stomach and curled in tighter. Just keep breathing. But his lungs were screaming. His breaths were shallow and quick.

Through it all, there are ghosts of lips that never leave his own and a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

;;;

Weeks went by. Clint didn't see Coulson very often. Only whenever there was a team meeting in Tower. Clint would sit through those, barely paying attention, since he wasn't able to go out with the team anyway. He never met Coulson's eye and Coulson never sought him out. Clint overheard the others whispering about it every so often. They didn't know what it was about. Which was the only good thing about it. At least it was just him, Coulson, and Tasha who knew. At least he wouldn't have to be embarrassed around the others too.

Clint was eating almost a full meal a day now. Nothing too strong yet. Some days he could handle a bagel with cream cheese and a bag of popcorn. Other days he couldn't even handle a handful of cheerios. But it was getting better. Slowly but surely the pain was lessening and his strength was returning and he could go hours at a time with a clear head.

Two months after the kiss, he has a moment without pain. The shock of it stops him dead in his tracks. He stops in the middle of a sentence explaining to Steve why MTV didn't have music. Steve turning to look at him, worried. They'd all seen Clint suddenly drop to the ground in pain.

"Clint?" Steve takes a hesitant step forward, reaching out uncertainly. Wanting to comfort but unsure how to, without making it worse. "You okay?"

"no – " Steve's face pinches. " no pain." Clint looks up to meet Steve's eyes. "I don't hurt." It comes out in a whisper. Like if he speaks too loudly the pain will all come flooding back.

Steve beams. His whole face lighting up with the brilliantly white smile. "That's great."

They just stand there. Steve watching as Clint stares down at his hands. He flips them over, curling and uncurling his fingers. His muscles don't ache. His joints don't hurt. He can almost feel the old tingle of energy that makes him want to run down to the range and grab his bow. He wants to take advantage of this relief to do the one thing he missed most. He's about to open his mouth, to tell Steve what he's thinking, but he stops. The pain is seeping back. A slow, soft trickle that makes Clint want to scream in frustration.

He drops to his knees, not bothering trying to stop the tears.

30 seconds. For 30 beautiful, glorious, perfect seconds he'd been free. But the pain was back. Because it always came back. It felt like a noose around his neck, pulling him into the grave.

Steve drops down beside him, eyes too understanding. "It back?" Clint just nods and wraps a hand around his stomach, trying to cling to the memory of what it had been like to, just for a few moments, not hurt.

;;;

The trees are a sea of colors. Bright reds and golds mixed with fading greens. Clint relishes in the sight of it as he walks through Central Park with the rest of the team. He could see his breath in the crisp morning air. It's the first time he's been out of the Tower in months. He walks a little behind everyone else, watching them. Splashing in the small puddles from the storm that morning. Throwing leaves at each other. Laughing and talking and overall being something out of a cheesy movie.

Clint's energy is starting to come back. The pain is getting better. The waves are smaller and further apart. The pain-free moments are happening more and more. His appetite is almost reaching some semblance of normal. Though he doubts he'll ever be able to eat as much as he once did. He's just happy to be able to sit down at the table with the rest of them. To start feeling like part of the team again.

By now Clint was fairly sure he'd been wrong. That he wasn't going to die.

Part of him was relieved. He hadn't wanted to die that way. He wanted to go out with a bang. Literally if he could.

But another part of him… the part that knew that when he started being able to shoot again. When he could get back into shape, could get his field clearance back… he'd be part of the team again. And Coulson would be his handler again. Clint still hadn't been able to look at Coulson since. Still hadn't said a word to him and hadn't had Coulson say a word to him. As much as Clint was relieved by that, he hated it. He missed Coulson. They'd been working together for 10 years. In that time, Clint had never gone this long without talking to him. It was like, even as he was gaining his life back, there was still a huge piece missing.

;;;

The feel of his bow in his hands is nearly orgasmic after so many months without it. He draws it back and releases an arrow, hitting his target perfectly. The creature plummets from the sky, dropping to the street below where Cap and Widow are fighting off the ground troops. It's Clint's first time in the field since he got sick. He is somewhat ashamed of how wonderful it feels. Of how his heart flutters whenever someone calls him Hawkeye. He nocks another arrow, releasing it to take out another creature. His aim is as perfect as ever.

;;;

Phil takes a deep breath to steady himself outside the conference room. He has faced down a god single-handedly, he could do this. It was just a debriefing. He'd done millions of these. Just read through the files. Go over the attack. Say what they did right and what they did wrong. Then he could hole himself up in his office.

The Avengers were in varying states of exhaustion and disrepair when Phil finally stepped into the room. They were all covered in a fine layer of dirt that did nothing to hide the bruises and blood. But they were all smiling. Well. Almost all.

Phil only let his eyes flick over Clint for a fraction of a second as he scanned the room. He was better off than the others but his mouth was set into a hard line. His eyes staring determinedly at a spot to Phil's left.

Phil sighs and eases down into the chair, spreading the file out in front of him. It was nearly an inch thick. Not the biggest debrief file he'd ever seen, but far too daunting right now. With everyone's eyes boring into him. All of them oversensitive to the silence between him and Barton. A silence so solid that it might as well have its own chair.

The words on the page were out of focus. They twisted and warped and Phil's head hurt from trying to make sense of them. It was too much. The final straw that Phil cannot handle. He doesn't say a word, just stands up and walks from the room. He could hear the confused whispers as the door swung shut. He ignored them and headed for Fury's office.

"Coulson?" Fury looks surprised when Phil enters his office without bothering to knock. "Shouldn't you be in a debriefing?"

"I'm requesting a transfer." Phil's shocked by how steady his voice is. It's flat and hollow, but perfectly steady.

"You don't want to handle the Avengers anymore?" Fury raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes. Give them to Sitwell. He'll be thrilled. Or Woo. But I'm done." Phil doesn't wait for Fury to answer before he leaves, heading for his office.

;;;

He knows as soon as he opens his office door that she's waiting for him, even if he can't see her. "Can I help you, Agent Romanov?" He slips into his chair as she slides out from the shadows behind his bookcase. She perches herself at the edge of one of the chairs opposite him, staring at him steadily. He can feel the anger and frustration rolling off of her. He doesn't blame her. This whole situation is a giant cluster-fuck. "I had no choice, Natasha."

"You could have pulled your head out of your ass." There is venom in her voice. It bites at the memories of their previous arguments. Always the same routine. Over and over. He'd tried it her way and Clint had thrown it back in his face. So now he was doing it his way.

"Thank you for your input. I'm sure Sitwell will be requiring your presence for the debriefing. Good day."

There's a slow, soft sigh but she leaves. Maybe she realized what Phil already knew. That he and Clint, that was never going to happen. Because Phil had overreacted. Had pushed too hard, too fast. And now Clint hated him.

;;;

Phil hated him. That was the only explanation Clint could think of. The only reason Coulson would leave the team.

Sitwell manages well enough. After a few missions, he finds his niche and the team works as efficiently as ever. They take down monsters and aliens and crazed scientists and the team stays in one piece. The most serious injury any of them get is when Hulk gets a few burns that Bruce ends up having to deal with. It's disconcerting how well the missions go. Probably because Clint stays on task the whole time. There's no one to banter with over the comms. No one to distract him. And somehow, doing stupid shit isn't as fun without Coulson's angry screams in his ear.

Five long months drag by. Clint spends most of it trying to fill the hole in his life that he refuses to name. He spends longer on the range. Starts sparring with Steve and Tasha daily. He initiates team movie night and karaoke night. He learns that Tony doesn't need a reason to go out drinking any night of the week. He smiles and laughs along with the rest of them. He pretends that everything is normal.

Tasha doesn't buy it. But he never expected her to.

;;;

A stab of pain shocks Clint awake. A bolt of pain that flashes across his stomach, leaving a trail of scorched nerves in its wake. He curls up on himself, praying that it's just a nightmare. The pain lingers, all too familiar. Even as if ebbs away, it leaves his whole body feeling hollowed out.

It was supposed to be gone. It was supposed to be okay. It wasn't supposed to come back.

Clint cries himself to sleep.

;;;

The others notice when Clint stops eating. They see as he starts to weaken. As he starts sleeping longer and taking naps. He can feel their eyes on him, watching his every motion. He can see as the worry starts to seep back into their stances. They don't ask him about it though, staying silent until a spasm of pain makes him whimper during a movie night a few weeks later.

"That's it! We're taking you to the hospital." Steve stands up and crosses towards the chair where Clint is sitting, curled up into as small a ball as he can manage.

"No point." Clint grinds out the words through clenched teeth. "Can't do anything." Steve stays standing, looking torn between wanting to do something and knowing there was nothing he could do. "Watch the damn movie." Steve finally sits back down but Clint knows that his eyes never make it back to the screen.

"Upon which day did this pain begin?" Thor tries to whisper and fails miserably.

"Three Thursdays ago." Tasha answers for him. Clint feels a wave of gratitude as a wave of pain shoots along his spine and makes him arch out, trying to get away from the pain.

"And whence did it begin on the previous occurrence?"

"Umm." Tasha looks to Clint. She doesn't know. Which is impressive, for Clint to have been able to hide the pain from her.

"Roughly mid-May." No one comments on how weak his voice is, thinned out by the pain.

"So about a year ago? Exactly." Bruce sounds intrigued. "That seems odd."

"Perhaps…" Thor's voice is barely audible. They all turn as one, shocked that he'd managed to speak so quietly. Thor's face is twisted up in concentration, no longer seeing the room around him. "I must return to Asgard at once." He's on his feet and out of the room before any of them can blink.

Clint fights against the spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally get an answer. Just a name for whatever was wrong with him. He didn't care about a cure. That dream had gone out the window the night the pain had come back. The night when he realized that he'd been right initially. This thing would kill him, it was just taking its sweet ass time about it. Still. To have a name for it. Somehow that would make all of this better.


	5. Chapter 5

No one knew how long Thor was going to be gone. The first few days, everyone was on edge, waiting for him to show up at any moment. They all would jump every time the elevator dinged. And they'd gotten excited when they had heard the low rumble of thunder. But the elevator was always someone else, and the storm had passed without Thor showing up.

Clint spent his days lying on the sofa watching movies and crap television. The others would come in and sit with him every so often. He both hated it and loved it. It was nice to have company. To have people to comment on the shows with. Steve was always interested in the Discovery Channel and would literally sprint into the room if he heard the Mythbusters on. Not that he recognized many of the myths. Clint thought he just liked catching up on science and culture while watching things blow up. That was why Clint watched it. Bruce and Tony weren't allowed to watch with them anymore because they spent the whole time yelling at the tv. Plus, no one liked giving Tony any ideas for ways to create explosions.

But it was exhausting to hold back the pain so much. He knew that they wouldn't judge him for showing how much he hurt, but he had spent a lifetime hiding pain and being told to suck it up. So whenever anyone sat down on the couch next to him, he wrapped an arm tighter around himself and set his face into a calm smile. He'd pretend not to wince as a wave of pain made it feel like a knife was being twisted into his kidney and they would pretend not to see it. It wasn't the best system. But it worked.

Clint was still managing to eat a few bites of food when the team got called out a week later. The pain was in between waves and he felt as good as he had since the pain had started to come back. When Steve had made the call to assemble, he'd reacted on instinct. Jumping off the couch and racing towards his rooms to grab his bow.

"Absolutely not." Tasha had stopped him in the hallway outside his room. It took a moment for Clint to understand what she was talking about. Then the reality of the last few weeks caught back up with him in the form of stabbing pain. He immediately tried to hide it. Tasha just raised an eyebrow at him. "No."

Clint growled, frustrated. "Just let me out of the house. I'm bored as fuck just lying around all day. Let me have a comm and sit in mobile command or something." He didn't care that he was begging. He needed this.

Tasha's shoulders softened. "I know. I do."

"No. You don't" He was fighting to keep from screaming at her. That would not help anything. "I'm Hawkeye, Tasha. Please... Imagine if you couldn't be Black Widow anymore. Imagine if you had to sit back and watch as your team goes off without you. Imagine if you were so absolutely worthless." His voice cracked on the last word and he dropped his eyes to the floor.

Tasha took a step forward and placed a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "We can still beat this. Thor will come back with answers and we can go from there. Until then, you need to stay out of the field. Okay?" She offered him a tentative smile and he nodded.

"Can I get a comm and video feed?"

Tasha's smile twisted and an evil gleam came to her eyes. "That's up to the field commander for this mission. Which, since Sitwell's still in Berlin, means it's Coulson." She disappeared down the hall before Clint could respond. He wanted to run after her. To yell at her for doing that to him. For dropping something like that on him and just walking away. For throwing that disaster back in his face.

His knees felt weak as he staggered the rest of the way to his bedroom. Tony had run past him, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he went for his suit. He didn't notice Clint and Clint ignored him. He didn't bother closing the door before dropping onto his bed. There was a distant roar as Iron Man took off before the building fell into an echoing silence. Clint's mind decided that it needed to fill the emptiness with memories of everything he'd done wrong. Of the times he'd gone too far on a mission and had gotten Coulson hurt. Of the times Coulson had gotten into trouble by covering for Clint's screw-ups. Of the time Clint hadn't been able to stop Loki from plunging a spear into Coulson's heart.

;;;

Clint must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, it was dark outside and he could hear the ruckus that was the team returning. He counted their voices, making sure they had all made it home. With Thor gone and him stuck in bed, it was just the four of them out there. They could handle themselves, but things happened. There were accidents and people died. But he heard Tony's laughter and Steve and Tasha yelling at him and he could just make out Bruce's snort of amusement. They were all safe.

Clint rolled over, ignoring the way the change in position shifted his ribs and constricted his breathing. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Wasn't anything he wasn't used to. He snuggled his head into his pillow and sighed. Today needed to be over. This week needed to be over. This whole fucking life just needed to be over. He was sick of it. Sick of hurting. Sick of being tired. Sick of being hungry and unable to eat.

It wasn't the first time in his life Clint had thought about suicide. Growing up like he did, he'd considered it more than once. Right now, the idea of a bullet in his brain sounded way too nice. Just one quick shot and it'd all be done… He'd always managed to find some reason to stay alive. For his brother. For Coulson. For Tasha. For the team. But he wasn't a part of the team anymore. He wasn't an asset. Wasn't anything. Just a lump of medical mystery that could barely muster the energy to take a shower.

What was the point in sticking around if he was just going to hurt? If there was no one to help? No one to protect? No one who needed him?

His hand was halfway to his bedside table and the gun in the drawer when he heard footsteps. Shit. He'd forgotten his bedroom door was still open. He flopped back down on the bed. Tony's singing filled the hallway, accompanied by the whirring thump that was Iron Man's footsteps.

"Get your ass out of bed. No evil robots are going to stop us from having our karaoke night!" Clint glared at Tony who stuck his head through the door. "You don't get to get out of this. It's not like you don't just sit on your ass all day anyway. The least you can do is come out and sit on your ass and shower me with praise."

Clint chuckled as Tony stumbled off down the hall. The man was damn adamant about karaoke night. He'd drag Clint upstairs if he had to. A few more hours wouldn't make any difference. The gun would still be here waiting for him whenever he wanted it.

Listening to Tony's rendition of Shoot to Thrill, which he sang every fucking week, helped distract Clint from the throbbing pain in his back. But as Tony hogged the mic for his third song in a row, the room felt suddenly empty. It was usually only the 6 of them, and Thor was loud enough to make up for ten people, but just watching the four others interacting felt so wrong. Like the team wasn't complete anymore. Or maybe it was just that Clint didn't feel like one of them anymore. Either way, by the time Steve finally insisted on calling it a night, Clint's mind was back on the gun waiting for him in his room.

;;;

Tasha was sitting cross-legged on Clint's bed when he entered the room. He wasn't really surprised to see her, she always had a way of knowing what Clint was thinking even before Clint did. The look on her face said that right now, she knew exactly what Clint was planning on doing. And she wasn't going to have any of that. He simply walked right past her and locked himself in the bathroom.

It took her all of two seconds to pick the lock and come in after him. "Don't you dare." Her voice was a low growl.

"Get out, Natasha." Clint sat on the edge of the tub and glared up at her. "This is my choice."

"No, it isn't." Her voice tightened at the determination in his face. "Clint." She sighed and sat down next to him. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. But this isn't an option. At lea-"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." Clint ground out the words, trying to see past his anger. "The entire Coulson mess is your fault! So you don't get to bring it up. Got that? God, you can be a real bitch sometimes. Really. You think this is just a spur of the moment decision? That I didn't consider it last year, when I was living off IVs? You think I didn't think about eating a bullet the moment this pain came back? I'm exhausted." Tears were threatening to spill from his eyes. He squeezed them shut. "I just want to not hurt anymore."

"Okay." The finality in her voice shocked Clint. He blinked open his eyes to stare at her. "If you want to, I won't stop you. But," Clint groaned. "can you at least wait until Thor comes back? There's always a chance he'll find a cure."

Clint laughed. "Right."

"Please? For me? For everything we've been through together, can you just hold off until we know for sure?"

Clint considered it. Thor could be weeks longer, or he could show up tomorrow. At the rate the pain had been progressing, he figured he had about a month before he was back on an all IV diet. Thor was sure to be back before then. He knew what Clint was going through and wouldn't take his time getting back to Earth. And this was Natasha. His Natasha. The one who had dragged his unconscious ass out of burning buildings more times than he cared to admit. If anyone had any right to ask him to not do this, it was her.

"Okay."

;;;

"You found out what it is?"

They were all gathered in a hospital room, much to Clint's chagrin, but Bruce had insisted. Clint hadn't eaten for a few days but had managed to hide it. It would have been fine if he'd hadn't stood up so quickly upon seeing Thor's return and ended up passing out in the living room. Now he was in SHIELD Medical, hooked up to another fucking IV and a heart monitor and a bunch of other machines. It was the first time he'd been to HQ in weeks. Ever since the pain had come back.

Natasha was sitting with him, squeezed up against him on the narrow bed. Bruce was hunched into one of the chairs, eyes constantly darting to the screen that displayed Clint's vital signs. Tony and Steve were both standing on either side of the room, like flanking guards. Their backs straight and their arms crossed. Sitwell was sitting in the other chair. Clint wasn't particularly pleased that he was included. This wasn't his problem and Clint had argued that point, but Steve had allowed it, since Sitwell was still technically his handler.

Thor was standing at the foot of the bed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I have discovered what ails our friend, yes." The grim set to his mouth didn't give Clint any hope for a quick and easy cure. "It is a malady most rare. I have searched the most thorough of the Asgardian records and have discovered only two other instances of its occurrence."

"What is it?" Steve was in full-on Captain Rogers mode. His mouth set into a firm line. "What caused it and how do we fix it?"

"I am afraid that I only possess the answers to two of those questions."

Clint was braced for the bad news. For the knowledge of his impending death. But at least it would finally have a name. He repeated the sentence over and over in his head. At least he would finally know what to call this. Would know what it was that was killing him. His nerves were stretched taught and his stomach was doing backflips. Natasha's hand slipped into his and squeezed softly. A reassuring pressure that helped keep him grounded.

Or it did, until the door opened and one more person slipped into the room. The last person in the world Clint had expected to see. The last person he wanted to see. The air in the room turned to ice. For a moment no one moved or breathed. Finally Steve nodded once and Coulson nodded back before leaning up against the door, his arms folding easily over his chest.

Thor hesitated for a second, a smile brightening his face upon seeing Coulson. It fell away as he turned back to Clint. Replaced with something akin to devastation. "It has been given no name but the histories describe it as what you would call an allergy."

"An allergy?" Tony scoffed. Steve glared at Tony, who rolled his eyes. "Just saying, I've never seen an allergic reaction like this." He gestured towards Clint.

"It is not a Midgardian disease and therefore does not elicit reactions that you would recognize. But that is the best term that I can use to make you understand."

"So what did cause it?" Tasha asked.

"The Tesseract."

Clint felt his stomach drop. "but – " He couldn't get the words out.

"That was years ago." Tasha spoke the words for him. "Why would it only be affecting him now?"

"Exposure to the powers of the Tesseract affects each individual differently. For most it is simply power, as it was with my brother, Loki. The power to control others. To assert one's own motives above anyone else's. For most people, when the influence of the Tesseract is removed, their minds return to their original states. However, for an extremely select few, the power bleeds into their beings so fully, that it will never again leave them. No mortal body can withstand such prolonged exposure. The residual energy burns through the person until there is nothing left."

"Can it be reversed?" Bruce's whisper sounded like a gunshot in the silence that followed Thor's words. All eyes darted to the Doc before going back to Thor. The tears in his eyes were more than enough to answer the question.

"How long?" Clint looked straight ahead as everyone turned to stare at him. He kept his head level and his voice steady. Betraying nothing. It was easier than he expected. He had faced death so many times before. What was this compared to gigantic monsters or robots or aliens. "How long do I have?"

"I cannot say for certain. All that I know is that the disease appears to have a pattern. The suffering will increase in strength with each year that passes and each year the suffering will last for a greater length of time. Until such time as the times between sufferings disappear entirely. After this occurs, the body will weaken and fade away, as it is prone to do in long bouts of anguish."

"That isn't an answer." Clint pressed. "I need a time frame."

"Based upon my viewing of your suffering this last year and how intensely it has returned, I would say that the times of respite will end in less than a decade."

Ten years. Clint had ten years to live. At best. And they would be a horrible ten years. Years of pain, knowing that each year the pain would get worse. Knowing that each year the months without pain would shorten until they were weeks, then days, then nothing at all. Years of living attached to an IV bag, too weak to get up from the couch. Years of feeling unable to breath, of feeling like his lungs were being torn apart and his kidneys were being clawed out of him.

All leading up to a slow death. A lingering death. The kind of death Clint refused to allow for himself.

"Okay." He said finally, realizing that everyone was waiting for him to speak.

"Clint – " Steve started, but Tasha cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Could you all please give us a moment?" Her voice was sweet but left little doubt to the fact that it was not a suggestion. The others all filed out of the room, casting him pitying glances as they went. Anger flared in Clint's chest but he bit it back. He could allow them this, just this once. Sitwell hesitated at the door, stopping next to Coulson who was still standing there.

Sitwell took a deep breath, like he was going to say something, but seemed to think better of it and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Leaving just Coulson and Tasha in the room with him. Something about it felt so familiar. The three of them in a hospital room. It would have been like old times except that Clint was very determinedly not looking at Coulson.

;;;

Phil stared at the cheap abstract print framed on the far wall. He was still trying to comprehend everything Thor had said. That Clint was dying. That he only had 10 years left to live and that those ten years would be… Phil swallowed and clenched his hand into a fist to keep it from shaking.

He could hear the soft whir and beeping of the medical equipment over the sound of Clint and Natasha's breathing. He knew he shouldn't be here. That Clint wouldn't want him here. He wanted to leave. Every fiber of his being was telling him to walk back to his office and stop worrying about things that weren't his problem anymore. But his feet wouldn't move.

"Are you still planning on –" Natasha whispered. Phil's eyes flicked to her, instinctively honing in on the sound. He regretted it as it put Clint in his field of vision as well. The man looked exhausted. Even worse than that, he looked broken. He was turned in towards Natasha, like he was clinging to her for support. For the first time, Phil felt like he was intruding on them. Like he was witnessing something private, that he had no right to see.

"Yeah." Clint huffed the word. "Wouldn't you?"

"When did you think?"

"Don't know. Might wait out this year and see. I'd like to have one last hoorah as Hawkeye. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and a bomb will take me out. Or maybe we'll actually get a bad guy that knows what he's doing and I can go down in a blaze of glory. Something more memorable than just a bullet at home, you know."

Phil couldn't stop the gasp as he figured out what they were discussing. "No." Natasha glared at him as Clint dropped his eyes to his hands which were picking at a speck of fuzz on the blanket. "Absolutely not."

"It's Clint's decision." Natasha's voice was steady but her eyes were swimming. He could see how much the idea hurt her, but she loved Clint too much to deny him. She wouldn't ask him to prolong his suffering just so she wouldn't have to say good-bye. "And I stand by it."

"Well I don't." Phil knew it was selfish. Clint was in pain. Who was he to ask him to keep suffering? Especially after everything Phil had put him through. He had no right, but he couldn't let Clint do this. He'd tried so hard, last year, when he had thought Clint was dying. Had tried to distance himself, to make it easier on himself. He could remember how Clint's face had fallen as Phil had started to step back. Phil had finally let Natasha convince him that Clint felt the same way he did, and had acted on in.

Clint's reaction would be burned into his brain until the moment he died. The disgust on his face as he ran from the room. It was the reason Phil had asked for a transfer. He couldn't look at Clint and not remember the way his lips had felt and the way it had broken Phil's heart when he had rejected him. The months away from the Avengers had been agonizingly boring. Phil had watched from his office as Sitwell led them in the field. Had felt his gut wrench every time one of them took a hit. Sitwell had been keeping him up to date, but had failed to mention that Clint had started hurting again. A point which he would be bringing up with the man as soon as he got a chance.

Natasha had told him at the last op. Phil had been torn between relief at not having to face Clint and sadness that Clint was suffering again. The guilt had overridden both. It came flooding back as Clint whispered "What do you care?"

Phil felt like his heart was being torn from his chest. "We've worked together for ten years, Barton." He was amazed at how level his voice was. Falling back on decades of practice. "I may not be your immediate handler anymore, but I –"

"No." Clint shook his head. "I don't want to deal with this right now. Okay. So just stop this, whatever it is you're doing."

"это пиздец!" Natasha swore in Russian causing both Phil and Clint to jump. "You two are fucking ridiculous. I'm not letting this get any further." She was on her feet, red hair flaring out behind her. All intimidation and fury. "He loves you." She jabbed a finger from Clint to Phil. "And he loves you." Her finger went from Phil to Clint. "I'm not letting either of you out of this room until you get this sorted out." She stormed from the room, shoving past Phil and slamming the door behind her.

"She's guarding the door, isn't she?" Clint asked. Phil peeked out through the closed blinds of the observation window. Natasha was across the hall, glaring back at him.

"Yeah."

"She's not going to let us out of here any time soon, is she?"

"No."

They fell into an awkward silence. After a minute, Phil moved to sit in the chair Banner had vacated. He dropped his head into his hands, not wanting to speak first. Natasha had told him once before that Clint had cared for Phil. He had seen how wonderfully that had turned out. Phil wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Especially not when he was still reeling from Thor's revelation.

"I – "Clint sighed heavily. "Please tell me this is some sick joke that you and Tasha dreamt up. That it's her last ditch attempt to keep me around by giving me the one thing I'd fight for. Because - I can't handle this." Clint's voice faltered. "I just found out that the rest of my life is going to be constant fucking pain, and then – you – just- "

Phil reached a hand out towards where Clint's was lying on the bed. He stopped himself, letting it fall a few inches short. Clint's words were shredding him apart, tearing into his heart. He felt a glimmer of something he lost all hope of ever having. "This isn't a joke." Phil gathered his courage, steeling himself for what he knew he had to do. He wasn't going to let this draw out. "She was telling the truth. I –" he swallowed past the knot in his throat, "I love you." Phil didn't move. Keeping his eyes fixed on a tile on the floor, knowing that if he saw that same disgust on Clint's face again, it would destroy him. He waited silently for Clint to throw it back at him again.

"Why?" It was the last thing Phil had expected to hear. The shock of it finally caused him to look up and meet Clint's eyes. There was none of the disgust or anger that Phil had been expecting. Instead, Clint looked even more broken and confused, like a lost child.

"Why what?"

"Why everything. Why me? Why now? Why – " Clint's voice cracked and he fell silent.

Phil inched his hand along the bed until his fingertips were just brushing Clint's, still expecting him to jerk away at any moment. But Clint's hand stayed put. The feel of his skin sent shockwaves through Phil's body. He smiled at how easily Clint could affect him. "Because at some point, I began to enjoy the bantering over the comms. Because I started looking forward to seeing you come swaggering into my office. Because you could stay optimistic during the most fucked up missions but still managed to call everything exactly as it was. Because I spent far too many hours in this hospital, scared that this time would be it, and you'd be gone and I'd never get to see you again."

"So why now?" Clint shifted his hand so that his fingers overlapped Phil's. The gesture sent Phil's heart into a tail spin. "Why say all of this to a guy who just found out – well – you know. Why not sooner?"

"Because there was always another mission. Another adventure to have together. Another reason to convince myself that it was unprofessional. That we were too good of a team and that I couldn't let my own emotions get in the way of that. Because – because I was scared you'd reject me." Phil curled his fingers, pulling them back, away from Clint's.

"No!" Clint's hand latched onto Phil's suddenly. "Don't." Clint's hand twisted until their fingers were intertwined. Phil wasn't going to admit how perfect the innocent gesture was. Or how many years he had dreamt of getting to do exactly this, though not usually with the whole dying thing. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Phil shook his head and let his eyes drop back to the floor. The bed groaned and Clint's free hand was on Phil's cheek, lifting his face up until they were eye to eye. Clint had leaned forward so that they were only a few inches apart. Phil could feel Clint's breath on his skin.

"No, it's not fine. I thought you were doing it out of pity. Dying man's last wish, you know." Phil nodded. It made sense that Clint had thought that. It was how Clint's mind worked. Phil should have known that. Should have guessed that Clint would have seen it that way. "But I am, truly, sorry."

They both eased forward, bridging the gap left between them. Their lips met and it was everything Phil had ever dreamt it would be. Even if Clint's lips were slightly chapped. Even if the air smelled so sterile that it burned Phil's throat. It was perfect. Because when they finally broke apart, Clint was looking at him with nothing but happiness.

"So, what now? I mean, this isn't a fairy tale where true love's first kiss fixes everything. I'm still dying."

"And still a mood ruiner." Phil groaned and rested his forehead against Clint's.

"You said you liked that I called things straight."

"No, I said I loved that." He felt Clint's laughter and smiled. "But it's up to you. Though putting in my two cents, I'd prefer if you didn't shoot yourself."

"Yeah, no. That option went out the window the moment you kissed me."

"Good." Phil couldn't stand the thought of losing Clint again so soon after he finally got him. "So?"

"I don't know. I was never good at making plans. That was your job."

"Cause your plans had a very nasty habit of ending in explosions."

"Duh! Explosions make things so much more interesting."

"Well, how about we stay away from explosions for now. Maybe just take this one day at a time and see how it goes."

"Sounds boring." Clint whined.

"You're an ass."

"You know you love me."

"Damn right." Phil leaned forward and pressed another kiss to Clint's lips.

**Epilogue**

In the end, Clint got his wish. He went out with a bang. It wasn't a huge explosion or a supervillain, just a man with a gun. Clint had been out walking around the city, enjoying one of his few days without pain. Phil was supposed to be with him but there had been an incident and he'd had to go into the office. So Clint had been alone when he had stumbled onto the attack. Two men forcing themselves on a girl at gunpoint. He hadn't hesitated, simply jumped into action. But his muscles were weak from months of pain. His reactions had been slow and sluggish. The woman had gotten away unscathed, but Clint had gotten three bullets to the chest.

Phil missed him. Every cell in his body ached to have him back. To have just one more day together, but they'd gotten six years. Six long and amazing and sometimes trying years. Years of arguments and make-up sex. Years of Phil learning to work out of the Tower so that he could spend more time with Clint. Of Phil learning the triggers that made Clint's pain worse and the things that could always distract him enough to forget. Of the Avengers becoming more than just his team. Of them becoming his family. The people he turned to when he was worried about Clint. Or when he was struggling with the eventuality that hung over his and Clint's relationship. The people who stood with him now, gathered around the simple granite slab that marked Clint's grave.


End file.
